


I will always carry you

by Saetha



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood, Drunkenness, Fluff, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, kid!Dwalin - Freeform, kid!Thorin - Freeform, this goes from happy to angsty to silly to angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:46:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1512734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin will always carry his friend, his prince, his companion, his king, no matter what happens. </p><p>Here are four fluffy, angsty, silly, painful screenshots from the long life they shared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I will always carry you

**Author's Note:**

> Haha, I'm sorry for this. But this fic encompasses pretty much all I love about Dworin - the sheer amount of life they have to offer, be it sad, happy, fluffy or anything else really.

_But I will hold as long as you like  
Just promise me we'll be alright_

_([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IUVCISbpHuE))_

 

 

Thorin's heart is skipping with excitement. Dwalin can almost feel its beat through the strong grip of his palms on Thorin's legs and the chest pressed to his back.

They are both roaming the wide halls of Erebor, Thorin holding onto his shoulder with one hand and swinging his wooden toy axe with the other as they charge against imaginary foes. Nobody rebukes them for their wild actions. In contrast, many dwarrows and dwarrowdams smile upon them affectionately, clearly delighted by the fierceness of their young prince and his all-time-protector-momentarily-turned-battle-goat.

"To the kitchens!" Thorin proclaims, pointing his axe down the corridor from where the scent of fresh bread is wafting through the air. Dwalin grins wildly and accelerates on the spot, his feet a steady light pounding on the stone floors. His friend laughs as he skips over a bag of possessions someone has left behind and his much lighter weight is pouncing on his back.

Dwalin skids to a halt in front of the big doors that mark the entrance to the kitchen. Already, the smells are assaulting them and they see its various sources once they step inside - fresh venison for dinner, bread rolls in the making, savoury pies cooling on the counter and there, several trays of freshly baked cookies. Dwalin's eyes light up as they lay sight on the goodness so close to them. But Ásta is a dwarrowdam with eyes as sharp as a hawk's and the ears of a fox and she would know within seconds if pieces of her precious baking were missing. Dwalin is contemplating his chances to get away with what he wants if he just grabbed some and ran as fast as possible when Thorin's clear voice once again rings out.

"Missus Ásta, can you help?"

The dwarrowdam and chief of the kitchen comes over, wiping her hands covered in flour on her apron. A bright smile is plastering itself over her face as she sees the expression of earnestness on the young heir's face.

"What can I do for you, Prince Thorin?"

Thorin grins a toothless grin as he points at the cookies.

"My carrier has proven himself a most loyal and worthy companion today and deserves a reward for his services. Could you eventually spare some of those delicious treats?"

Ásta tries to stifle a laugh at Thorin's attempt to adopt his grandfather's kingly speech and is barely successful in doing so. And she finds the saying roaming the mountain quite true - that nobody can deny him anything once he has set sight on it with eyes the colour of cornflowers.

"Aye, my prince, I'm sure I can spare some of them."

With a yell of pure delight the two dwarflings watch how she takes four cookies from the tray and hands the baked goods over to them. As soon as they receive what they have come for, the two are out of the door again, their cries of victory slightly muffled by the amount of cookie crumbs in their mouths.

Soon, those crumbs are lodged all over their clothes and even sprinkled in Dwalin's hair. Thorin sways for a dangerous moment as he tries to eat, grab the axes, keep his hold on Dwalin and remove the morsels from his hair all at once. His companion grips him more tightly and soon they are running down the hallways again, breathless with laughter.

Dwalin silently vows to himself that he will never let his friend fall.

 

*

 

Thorin's heartbeat is too fast, much too fast. He has lost a lot of blood; it flows down in a steady trickle from the wounds in his shoulder and on his hip, staining Dwalin's clothes a dangerous, much too lively red in the process.

The warrior himself has not escaped unscathed and he grits his teeth against the pain in his leg as he continues his way down the hill to where he knows safety and a healer will await them. He curses the orc pack that has attacked them out of the blue in parts of the mountain that they should not be roaming, curses their ill luck and his own arms heavy after a week's worth of work at the forges and thus unable to swing his axe fast enough to prevent Thorin from getting hurt.

His prince seems to grow heavier by the second, the body on his back threatening to drag him down to the earth. But there is still grounds for hope, Dwalin tells himself; Thorin's grip on his clothes is still strong, the heaving of his chest has not yet stopped. After all, Thorin is much too strong-willed a dwarf to simply give up.

"Come on." he suddenly finds himself shouting at Thorin's shape. "Come on now, you stupid, mule-headed stubborn fool of a prince, just hold on a little bit longer, hold on, hold on, hold on..."

 _Hold on for me_.

A faint echo of a chuckle reaches his ears and suddenly his own heart is hammering in his chest, too. Thorin stirs faintly on his back, the movement stopping abruptly with a pained intake of breath. His voice is barely more than a whisper, cracking at the edges. But there is life and steel to be found in there yet.

"Stop shouting. I'm fine, 's nothing, just a scratch..."

"The hell you are." But Dwalin is unable to hide the relief flooding his voice. Thorin sounds tired, but he knows now that they might still make it to the healers in time. He prays to Mahal and all the Valar that might be listening not to take his friend into the Halls of Waiting just yet. There is so much that life still has to offer them, so much still to be said and done, far too much for it all to just end by the tip of an orcish blade and some bad luck.

When they reach the village Thorin has slipped back into unconsciousness, but he is still holding on, fingers clutching the fabric of the tall dwarf's shirt, his body and mind both fighting for his own sake, for his family's, for Dwalin's.

Dwalin has sworn to never let his friend fall, to never leave him behind and he stays true to his word.

 

*

 

The steady thrum of Thorin's pulse is both strangely muted and too loud in his ears. Dwalin shakes his head, tries to clear it of the shadows of alcohol clouding his perception from all sides.

He thinks that they have, in all likeliness, never been so drunk before. At least Thorin. They had been to the tavern at night, aye, but never quite consumed so much alcohol that his best friend can barely walk as it is the case now. Apparently the birth of an heir (Fíli, he reminds himself, the newborn lad is called Fíli) can change even the dourness of a king for a brief evening.

"Thorin, you could at least _try_ to walk." he mumbles.

"Nah 's t' comf'table 'n yer back" is the slurred answer he receives. "Nice an'...an'...an' warm."

"Mahal save me from drunk and stubborn kings." Dwalin just shakes his head and curses under his breath as Thorin threatens to slide off his back and onto the muddy ground. With a grunt he draws him further up, being rewarded with a faint grumble of displeasure from his friend.

But Dwalin can't help the smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Thorin's warmth on his back is more than comforting, speaking of trust and the bond between them. He thinks that it has been long, much too long that he has seen him so genuinely happy like he had been this evening; his rich voice joining into the songs of the others, his laughter rolling through the tavern and a spark of mirth in his eyes that has remained hidden for decades.

The sound of snoring rips Dwalin out of his thoughts. Thorin has fallen asleep on his back, his open mouth uncomfortably close to the tall dwarf's ear, each snore thus reverberating like a thunderstorm in his head. Dwalin can't help but shiver at the sensation of hot breath on his skin, even tinged with alcohol as it is. He shakes Thorin who wakes up with a confused snort and murmurs a question that Dwalin thinks is asking whether they're home yet.

He hides an exasperated sigh.

"No. But stop snoring into my ear or I'll drop you right here."

"Sorry." With those words Thorin buries his head in the remnants of Dwalin's hair. The warrior hopes his king won't actually start _drooling_ into them. He has almost forgotten how much Thorin can resemble a child when he is drunk.

As is turns out, he has _also_ forgotten just how needy and demanding a drunk Thorin can be. The tiny voice in his head that insists that drunk sex is a really, really bad idea, however, is quickly snuffed out by sloppy kisses that rapidly grow more agitated, fingernails digging into the skin of his back, the taste of sweat and sweetness on his tongue and the deep huskiness of Thorin's voice as he moans his name into Dwalin's ears.

If this is what he gets for carrying his king, he will gladly do so again.

 

*

 

The faint beating of Thorin's heart is barely audible anymore. This isn't the skittish rhythm of a little dwarfling's heart excited about the games they play; it isn't the feverish thrumming of ecstasy and heat flooding through his veins or the steady drum of a warrior and leader; this isn't the frantic beat inside someone who feels the pull of darkness and is still fighting it.

It is the sound of death approaching and Dwalin knows it.

But the mind and the heart are different things and so he keeps going, quietly, determined, the body of his king which is broken beyond repair lodged on his back. He doesn't even know where he is walking anymore. Somehow he thinks that as long as he himself is still going, Thorin's heart will keep beating too, will defy the blackness that has already swallowed them.

Thorin is heavy, so incredibly heavy as if the hands of their Maker were already pulling at him and ripping them apart. Dwalin can hear the blood thunder through his veins, can hear it dripping to the ground and painting the world a deeper red than he ever thought possible.

He stumbles and cries out in pain as he hoists himself upright again. He won't give up. Even if Thorin already has, he won't.

He can't.

His own injuries don't matter; nothing matters but the weight on his back, the weight of his own guilt that he knows will haunt him for years to come.

Thorin murmurs something and Dwalin thinks it must be nothing but a fever dream, but then he hears his voice again, louder this time and coloured with pain.

"I'm sorry." Thorin whispers and his breathing is fast and shallow and sounds terribly, terribly wrong through the crushed bones of his chest.

Dwalin wants to shout at him not to go, not to leave him alone, he wants to cry and beg, wants to do _something_ , _anything_ to save what is beyond saving. He tries to think of lips that taste of memories of a summer long past, of dark hair in the wind and sticking to sweaty skin, of blue eyes made of storm clouds and the sea. But he can't.

Instead he feels a spear of ice lodged in his throat, burning out all emotions inside him with terrible cold and leaving nothing behind but emptiness.

He can hear the footsteps of death in the slowing beat of Thorin's heart. And then he stops and his head sinks down and he just listens, the fingers of his right hand intertwining with his king's for one last time.

He listens for the final thumps in Thorin's chest, willing them not to stop, to go on forever.

But then nothing comes and never has silence felt so empty before.

He screams.


End file.
